A body made out of sand surged up in answer. I twitched my fingers and its arms grabbed the soldier around the neck, yanking him down to the ground.
Another sand body formed itself and surged into the fight. A soldier fired, but the bullet passed harmlessly through its chest before the sand creature was on top of him, pulling the gun away. Then another sand creature, and another, until I had half a dozen of them clawing at the soldiers as Noorsham burned them one by one. I moved like a sandstorm, like I’d seen Shazad with a blade. Except the whole desert was my weapon, my feet spinning the sand moving with me. I dodged a blade and whipped my hand up, the sand scattering into the soldier’s face.
And then everything was quiet.
I looked around. In the chaos, I realized the fight had brought us into the walls of Fahali. The Gallan soldiers were gone. It was just me and Noorsham left. We were facing each other down an empty city street, cleared by the fight. Folks had retreated inside their homes. I saw a flash of movement in one of the windows. Someone watching us.
The sun glinted off his armor. There was a dent near his heart where my last bullet had hit him. It might leave a bruise.
With the rush of the sand gone, everything went too still, too quiet.
“What now?” Noorsham asked. The lilt of his words was Last County. Everything about him ached with familiarity. Of the town I’d left. Of the desert heat that lived in my very skin. Of our eyes that looked like a clear desert sky on fire. Of the bloodline we shared, which remembered a sky without stars and an ancient war.
I could hear the sound of running feet. We weren’t done here yet. Fahali was a border city. It had a large guard. Noorsham raised his hand, already starting to glow red.
“Noorsham! You don’t want to do this.” My heart was still rushing. He hesitated.
“Noorsham,” a voice from above called. We both looked the same way at once. Naguib was standing over us. He stood by the city’s gate. He’d extracted himself from the fight with the rebels to find his weapon. “You are not finished.”
Two dozen more Gallan soldiers burst into the street, surrounding us, guns leveled, shouting in their guttural language. I reached for the sand. Their general was dead. He couldn’t give them the order to shoot. But one of them would get trigger happy soon enough.
Naguib raised his hand. A bronze ring glinted there, the same stuff that Noorsham’s armor was made of. There were words marked on it. Noorsham’s true name, I realized. Like Atiyah’d had her Djinni lover’s true name. Like all the stories where a greedy merchant or too-proud ruler sought to control some Djinni he chanced upon in the desert. The secrets the Djinn guarded jealously but that had a way of slipping out to the women they loved.
And it was my true name, too, I realized. Our father’s name.
“Burn the city.”
Noorsham’s blue eyes turned back to me. I saw that we understood each other. He didn’t want to kill me. He raised his hands toward me, like he wanted to embrace me or bless me or burn me. The slightest gesture scalded the air close to my face.
I knew what I needed to do. And I had one shot at it.
There was sand stuck to my hands. I shifted my fingers ever so slightly. I felt the sand answer even as the heat coming off Noorsham built, even against his will, even as he tried to hold it back. The barrels of the Gallan guns swung between me and Noorsham uncertainly. His fire was inching toward me. Toward my feet. I gathered the sand in my fingers into a bullet.
The world came into that familiar focus. Like I was a desperate girl standing in the pistol pit in Deadshot all over again.
I had one last shot.
I had good aim.
I moved in one motion, whipping my hand forward like a gunshot. The sand went with it. Not a violent, uncontrolled burst this time.
One clean bullet.
It hit Noorsham’s face, sending him staggering back with a cry as the bullet burst back into dust and the heat faded.
I held my breath as Noorsham looked up. The lock on the side of the mask was loose. The force of the sand had knocked it open. I watched as Noorsham’s hands came up to his face, shaking. The bronze mask that encircled his whole head came off.
He looked terribly young without it. As young as he had when he’d been just a blue-eyed, smart-mouthed boy from the shop in Dustwalk. A kid I’d figured was fragile and human and destined to die.
I’d been wrong on all counts.
“This city’s not the one who ought to burn,” he said, raising his hand toward Naguib.
The heat rolled off him in one angry wave, rocking everything in its path. The Gallan guns leveled on Noorsham. I pulled both my hands up, dragging the desert with them. Shielding him from the bullets as his fire crashed toward our enemy.
Naguib screamed.
thirty
I was born in the desert. The desert was part of me. That was all I remembered of the fight that followed. Chaos and sand and gunshots that didn’t hit me. And when all my enemies were gone I slumped back against a wall, too tired to care if anyone wanted to shoot me or burn me alive.
“Amani.” My eyes flew open. Jin was standing in the gates to Fahali. His face cleared as he saw me, and he ran toward me, relief written all over him. “Thank God.”
“You don’t believe in God,” I said. It came out half a croak just as he closed the last of the space between us with a kiss.
A throat cleared behind us. We tore apart.
The twins were standing a few feet away with matching crossed arms. They looked a little singed, but otherwise no worse for wear. “Is that the congratulations we’re going to get for surviving?” Maz asked. “Because I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
Izz’s hair stuck up. “I know how I feel about it.”
“And I know how I feel about breaking both your noses.” Shazad shoved Izz with one hand without breaking stride. Hala trailed in her wake, golden skin smeared red with blood. I realized the fighting was done. And we were all still alive. I wanted to cry in relief. Shazad sheathed her scimitar before reaching and pulling me into a hug. I collapsed into her gratefully.
As we broke apart, I realized we had an audience. The people of Fahali were crowding around us, gathering as the dust settled. Only they weren’t looking at us. Every eye in the street was fixed on Ahmed.
He was standing just outside the city gates, with three Mirajin soldiers. Prisoners, I guessed, as they waited on their knees, heads bowed, for his verdict.
He really did carry himself like a prince. I saw it now. The smiling, friendly Ahmed who’d brushed off “your majesty” was gone. But he wasn’t some golden ruler ready to climb onto a throne either. He looked like a legendary hero fresh from battle. Like a man who could lead this country.